


if we were to hold it

by wintersofts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon - Freeform, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Relationship, just a lot of thinking about hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersofts/pseuds/wintersofts
Summary: Byleth’s hair grows longer during their time apart. Dimitri is enchanted.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 19
Kudos: 153





	if we were to hold it

**Author's Note:**

> [insert standard warnings that i'm super rusty and that this is un-beta'd here wheee]

“Should I cut my hair?” Byleth asks all of a sudden.

Dimitri glances up from his pile of missives to see the professor leaning back in her chair, a loose seafoam green curl wrapped around her finger. Scattered in front of her are dispatches from the Knights of Seiros, left half-answered as Byleth abandons them in favor of idle conversation. 

Her gaze drifts to the sky outside the second floor window, and he follows a moment later. It is too fine of a day to be trapped inside with administrative tasks—which, Dimitri suspects, is only part of the reason for her unrest. 

The other part is likely the professor herself. He remembers Byleth as placid, but there’s a nervous energy to her these days, hypervigilance that manifests as fidgeting, her hand always a hair’s breadth from the hilt of her sword, searching— _always searching_ —for a way out.

He understands in some small way. It’s tough to forget they are at war, to suppress the instincts that make them lethal on the battlefield. Dimitri despairs of sitting behind a desk himself, but to him, this is a form of penance for duties he left unattended too long. 

He doesn’t know the reason for Byleth’s presence here, but he does not begrudge it either. Dimitri is grateful for her company; she makes the ordeal bearable. 

(“That entirely defeats the purpose of _penance_ ,” Ingrid points out, not unkindly. “You aren’t supposed to enjoy it.” 

“Ah.” Dimitri reflects on the long afternoons and nights spent sitting with Byleth, pausing frequently to trade jokes or inquire about some matter or simply offer sympathies, and confronts the fact that he doesn’t dread these occasions so much as looks forward to them. “Then I may be going about this the wrong way.”) 

“Your hair,” he repeats, exchanging one letter for another. Correspondence arrives from Fhirdiad daily, to be read, reviewed and sealed with the king’s seal before being sent off again—or, to be more apt, forwarded to Gilbert’s desk. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“It’s too _long_ ,” Byleth huffs. Her hair fans out behind her like a cape, cascading down her back in loose waves. “And it obscures my vision on the battlefield. It’s a hazard.”

He supposes that much is true; his own hair is a fraction of the length, but he ties it back in a sloppy half ponytail before battles to keep it out of the way. However, the professor’s hair is not like his, all mangy and tangled. It looks silky and shiny, tumbling over her shoulders with effortless grace. 

It grew exponentially during their time apart, in the five years Byleth spent in a distant suspended state. There is a wildness to it, an unearthly feeling. In certain lighting, she looks like the image of the goddess herself. 

At times he has fantasized about running his hands through it—now, as in the past—but it is an idle thought. His hands, unclean as they are, are not fit to touch someone like her.

“Sorry,” Byleth says abruptly. Her expression shutters off into something unreadable as she straightens up in her seat. “You probably don’t care much. I don’t know why I asked.” 

“Ah, no, I—” How does one admit he was staring wordlessly because he was admiring her? “I think it looks nice, Professor. It suits you.” Dimitri pauses, then adds, feeling bold, “Keep it.” 

Byleth blinks slowly. “Is that a command, Your Highness?” she asks after a lengthy pause, the corners of her mouth lifting in faint amusement. 

Heat crawls up his neck. “Merely a request from an admirer,” he replies, inclining his head, praying his expression does not betray him further.

The laugh that escapes her mouth is light, coloured with surprise. “I will think about it, Your Highness. But I’m as likely to hack it off with a sword if it annoys me too much.” 

“It would be a shame.” He says it too eagerly, too sincerely, but rather than turning away in discomfort, Byleth holds his gaze, the lines of her face softening. 

“You flatter me,” she murmurs, before redirecting her attention to her correspondence. Her cheeks are pink, and Dimitri returns to his own papers, green curls filling his mind’s eye. 

*** * * * ***

Trading Faerghus’ chilly weather for the heat and humility of Derdriu is an ordeal for many of their knights. In the aftermath of the battle, those trapped under layers of suffocating armour begin shedding it piece by piece, desperate for some reprieve. 

Dimitri is no different; he takes off his cape first, then his gloves, his movements sluggish and clumsy in the heat. Warm weather is truly the bane of his existence, but he refuses to let it render him useless at such a crucial point in time. He has no choice but to grit his teeth and suffer through it.

Even Byleth, who fares better with warmth than the cold, spends some time fanning herself and splashing her face with water before letting out a resigned sigh. “I will _melt_ here,” she says. “The monastery’s sauna never prepared me for this.” 

Beside her, Mercedes giggles. “Surely it isn’t _that_ bad, Professor.” 

Byleth sighs again. “You’re right; I can endure.” She twists her hair back into a bun as a temporary measure of relief, exposing the nape of her neck.

The first time Dimitri sees the pale expanse of skin, he accidentally breaks the lance in his hands. It was old and damaged and due for a replacement after the battle anyway, but he is hardly finished rationalizing the destruction to himself when Sylvain snickers from behind him. 

“I mean, not surprised that you’re so repressed, Your Highness, but it’s just a _neck_.” He slings an arm around Dimitri’s shoulder and lowers his voice. “Not like you got a glimpse of the Professor’s infamous—“

“Yes,” Dimitri says, strangled. “Just a neck.”

It’s Byleth’s neck. Perhaps that is the problem. It feels like an act of sacrilege to gaze at it so brazenly, but whenever she is nearby, Dimitri can’t tear his eyes away. He longs to brush his lips over her sensitive skin, press a kiss there and feel her shudder. But that, he thinks dizzily, is a different problem altogether. 

Byleth notices his stare before long. Cradling Failnaught in her arms, she approaches him with a small crease between her eyebrows. “Is there something on my face, Your Highness?” He fails to respond, and her frown deepens. “Or are you hurt, by any chance? You seem distressed.”

“No!” The word bursts out of him with unnecessary force, and Byleth rocks back in surprise at his impassioned response. “No—I am alright, and your face is normal, Professor. _Adequate_.” 

“Adequate,” Byleth repeats. She raises an eyebrow. 

“More than adequate,” Dimitri continues weakly. “Forgive me, the heat is scrambling my thoughts. Byleth seems to want to question him further, but refrains and quietly tells him to take care instead. 

The tension does not leave Dimitri’s body until she turns away, her attention stolen by some other important task. He can hardly tell her the truth, but the half-lie doesn’t sit well with him either. Even so, he dreads the idea of admitting out loud what it is that truly scrambled his thoughts. 

As they leave the city behind, the most enduring memory Dimitri has of Derdriu is of flushed skin, seafoam green hair, and desire curling in his belly, more oppressive and scorching than the weather.

(“Is he okay?” Ingrid asks, just out of earshot. Her eyes are filled with concern as Dimitri flounders. Sylvain sidles up to her with a smirk on his face. 

“He’s never seen a neck before.”

Ingrid looks at him, perplexed. “I’ll pretend to understand what you’re talking about.”

“Trust me,” Sylvain chuckles. “It’s _extremely_ embarrassing for him.”)

*** * * * ***

Byleth’s hair brushes against him as she leans over his shoulder to get a closer look at the map of Fódlan. She’s wearing it down today, and only seems to notice it obscures his view when Dimitri shifts in his seat to find a better vantage point. 

“Oh! Sorry.” With a sheepish smile, she sweeps her hair back and out of the way, although this, Dimitri admits, isn’t much of an improvement. “I didn’t mean to suffocate you with my hair.” He catches a passing whiff of a pleasant, calming scent as she leans back. 

“Worry not, Professor. It did not bother me,” Dimitri is quick to reassure. Byleth’s presence rarely does. If it elicits a strong response from him for other reasons, he would hardly call it a ‘bother’. A personal failing, perhaps. A foolish wish. Never Byleth’s fault, but his own. 

A heavy pause follows. Byleth holds her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking, before finally saying, “You looked uncomfortable.” 

“Oh.” He casts around for an excuse to save face and to keep himself from admitting that his discomfort is rooted in want and nothing else: wanting what he cannot— _should not_ —dream of having. “I thought perhaps I recognized the scent of your hair.”

“I see.” Her eyes widening in understanding, Byleth perches herself on the table facing him. Dimitri moves the map away to give her more room, and she rewards him with a grateful smile. 

“You must be remembering the smell of lavender; I used to keep some in the classroom.” She pinches a strand of her hair between two fingers and holds it up to her eyes. “Mercie helped me rub some lavender oils into my hair to keep it shiny and free of tangles.” Her smile turns deprecating. “It must seem like such a silly indulgence in the midst of a war.”

“Everyone should be free to indulge a little,” Dimitri says. Byleth, more than anyone, bears so much on her shoulders for their sake and for the sake of Fódlan. If something so small helps with the burden, if it makes her smile, Dimitri wishes to gift it to her himself. Unthinking, he leans forward to tuck an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Are we?” Byleth’s face is close enough that he can see himself reflected in her eyes, her voice sweet and low. “Free to indulge ourselves?”

“Of course,” Dimitri says with full confidence, then blinks. “Are we still talking about hair, Professor?” 

A fierce blush overtakes her features as she scrambles to her feet, avoiding Dimitri’s eyes. “Yes,” she says unconvincingly. “Just hair.” 

He can’t help but feel as if he has offended or made a grievous mistake, but barely has the chance to make amends before Byleth excuses herself, her face still red as she ducks out the door. 

The faint scent of lavender lingers in the room long after she’s gone. 

*** * * * ***

Securing Arianrhod is but one single victory in the grand scheme of things. However, it is still worth celebrating; the battle was hard won. Amidst the chaos in the fortress city, Dimitri allows himself a moment of quiet relief before snapping into focus. There is much to take stock of—most pressingly, the army’s condition, but worry for his friends gnaws at him as well. 

In particular, for Byleth. He had been separated from the professor and her battalion in the middle of the fighting. He knows she can handle herself, but Dimitri finds it difficult to rest until he can tear himself away to confirm that she is alright. 

Byleth finds him first. Her armour is battered and stained red, her face streaked with grime and worse. She looks unhurt on the surface, though she carries herself stiffly across the expanse between them. Dimitri abandons his duties to support her, but she is faster. He barely takes a step before she barrels into his chest, her arms wrapping around his torso with enough force to bruise. 

“Thank the goddess you’re okay,” she exhales shakily. “I was so worried.”

He hesitates for a moment before his arms slowly come to encircle her. Holding Byleth is a revelation; he is surprised to see how tiny she is in comparison to himself. How fragile and utterly _human_ , when he has spent so long thinking of her as anything but. 

Dimitri’s fingers tangle in her hair as he pulls her closer, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Byleth is shaking slightly, and he holds her long enough for it to subside. “I’m relieved you're unhurt as well,” he says, relishing the moment, cherishing it, until—

Sylvain coughs pointedly. “Bit of a _loooong_ hug there, Your Highness and Holiness.” 

At the sound of his voice, Byleth quickly drops her arms and steps back. Dimitri mourns the loss of contact, but Sylvain’s knowing grin keeps him from wanting more. “I was just,” she begins, then narrows her eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”

Sylvain ignores her question. “Do I get one too?” he asks cheekily.

Dimitri decides to interject before Sylvain can make the now awkward moment worse. “Sylvain, you’re _bleeding,”_ he points out, wincing at the sight of the redhead’s bloody shoulder injury. Sylvain shrugs nonchalantly in his direction before turning to Byleth with a twinkle in his eye. 

“I respectfully think the professor should kiss it better.” 

“I respectfully think _not,”_ is Byleth’s immediate answer. But she does heal Sylvain’s wound. Healing magic bathes all of them in a warm glow before dissipating. 

Through the lingering sparks, Byleth meets Dimitri’s eyes and her expression softens into a small, private smile. The world falls away for a moment, and all Dimitri sees is this. _Her._

The moment breaks as Sylvain gives Byleth his thanks and gingerly prods his healed shoulder. Byleth nods in acknowledgement, then takes a step towards Dimitri, her hand stretching out as if to take his. But she doesn’t, her fingers merely brushing against his palms before she turns away. “We’ll speak later,” she says, and although it will only be about strategy and logistics, a thrill shoots up his spine nonetheless. 

Dimitri stares after her retreating figure longer than necessary, far beyond what is proper. 

Sylvain makes a big show of sighing as Dimitri returns his attention to him. “Is it the eyepatch?” he says, mostly to him. “The _hair?”_ He strokes his chin in a display of deep thought. “What does the professor find so _appealing_ about His Highness?” 

Dimitri does not deign to answer. 

*** * * * ***

In between drawing up battle plans and worrying about supply lines, Byleth falls asleep with her head on Dimitri’s shoulder. 

It happens without him knowing. One moment she is seated next to him at the table, the next she is slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder as papers slip out of her fingers. The faint sensation of her hair brushing against his skin makes him squirm in place as she shifts in search of a more comfortable position. Dimitri forces his shoulders to relax in hopes it will help. 

The candlelight is faint, the flickering flame casting shadows over Byleth’s face. He watches her chest rise and fall evenly, and traces the dark circles under her eyes with his gaze. She looks utterly exhausted, but so is he. The campaign wears on them all. 

It would be easy to take solace in the fact that, for better or worse, it will all end soon. It would be easy, were he not terrified of the outcome. 

In this light, Byleth’s hair is bright and sprawling. _Enticing_. He’s always wanted to touch it, never considered himself worthy, but Byleth herself disagrees—often, and loudly. She inches ever closer, undaunted, reminding himself that he is more than the sum of his crimes. His failings. 

As gently as a man like him can, he cards his fingers through her hair. It is as soft and silky as he imagined it to be. Byleth stirs, and Dimitri freezes, but her eyes do not open. She merely curls her face inwards, her breaths tickling the sensitive part of his neck. 

Slowly, carefully, he frees his hand and pats her head before resuming stroking her hair. Byleth used to do this much for him before the war, under brighter skies. Before he lost himself to the beast within. She was not tall enough to reach the top of Dimitri's head, and looking back, he can see how it might have been undignified for the prince of Faerghus to crouch to give her access. 

But Byleth’s hand touching his hair has always been warm and comforting. He’d wanted a great many things back then—he still does—but he vividly remembers thinking that he didn’t want to lose that warmth. That much hasn’t changed. 

A sound escapes Byleth’s mouth and he immediately pulls his hand away. The next moment, Byleth’s eyes flutter open. “Dimitri?” she mumbles sleepily, squinting at him. “Don’t stop.” Her eyes close without giving him a chance to respond, and he chuckles to himself as he draws her closer and obliges. 

“As you wish, Byleth.”

Worthy or not, this moment is his— _theirs._

*** * * * ***

“I pray when we have children that they take after you, beloved,” Dimitri says once night. “Your hair, particularly. I’ve long admired it.” He brings a strand to his lips, chuckling at the incredulous expression on his wife’s face.

“Really?” Byleth sounds unconvinced. Her hair fans out over her pillow, and she brushes it aside impatiently as she rolls over to rest on her stomach and reaches out to stroke his head. “I’ve always loved _your_ hair more. It’s beautiful—like spun gold.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am _not_.” She pauses, considering. “A little girl with golden hair. She would be enchanting.” 

The picture is tempting, but—”A boy with your hair,” Dimitri counters, “And your nose, and your mouth, and your smile—all the things I love about you.” 

Even in the dim light, he can see Byleth flush. “Alright, I concede,” she says, letting her hand fall away and snuggling closer. Dimitri wraps his arms around her to share his warmth. “Both,” she adds following a lengthy pause, and the corners of his mouth tug upwards.

“Both,” Dimitri agrees, content.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my drafts for _ages_ and i finally got the energy to finish it recently. inspired by a piece of fanart i saw ages ago of f!byleth with really long hair (can't remember what it was now but it was really amazing)!


End file.
